Her Kilt-Clad Rogue

by Julie Moffett

  Ewan took a bite, chewed. “Ye look a bit green. Eat up.”

  Genevieve tore her gaze away from her supper. “Ah, I’m not feeling well. Perhaps I should retire.”

  Connor laughed, knowing at once what had distressed her. “I’m afraid we’ve offended Miss Fitzsimmons’ English sensibilities wi’ our food offering.”

  “No, not at all. I’m aware it’s a Scottish delicacy. I’m just not that hungry.”

  Ewan harrumphed, lifting another bite of haggis to his mouth. “Ye were eating fine a minute ago.”

  “Ah, well, I…”

  Connor held up a hand, his eyes twinkling. “Please stay, Miss Fitzsimmons. I’ll have another plate brought out to ye.”

  “No, please. That won’t be necessary.”

  Nonetheless, Connor insisted. He also persuaded her to stay and chat for far longer than she considered proper for the governess. Genevieve had just thought to excuse herself again when the conversation suddenly turned to her.

  “So, the governess is English. How fascinating.” Catherine’s voice carried just a hint of distaste.

  Genevieve looked up from the table. Despite the fact that Catherine’s comment hadn’t been directly addressed to her, pride dictated she answer anyway. “Yes. I’m from northern England. Alnwick to be exact.”

  “Never heard o’ it.” Catherine turned her beautiful green eyes toward Connor. “I must say, Connor, this is quite unusual, even for ye.”

  Genevieve stiffened at the woman’s casual and but very pointed use of his Christian name in front of both his father and son. This was clearly a woman making a public claim on her territory.

  If Connor understood the implication, he was nonplussed. “Miss Fitzsimmons is an old friend of the family.”

  “Is that so?” Catherine lifted a delicate eyebrow. “Just how old a friend?”

  For some unfathomable reason, Malcom laughed. “Well now, my dear, her grandda and I go back quite a ways. Connor and I spent a most delightful summer at their estate some years ago. Miss Fitzsimmons was an impeccable host, especially to Connor.”

  Genevieve flushed. Malcom was clearly baiting the woman and seeming to enjoy it. Even worse, Connor made no move to stop him.

  Catherine leaned back in her chair. “Really?”

  Genevieve took a gulp of her wine. “Um, it was a long, long time ago. Ten years.”

  Why in God’s name she had volunteered the information?

  “Well, well.” Catherine regarded Genevieve thoughtfully over her wine cup. “How very interesting.”

  “Um, not really.” She rose to her feet, her cheeks burning uncomfortably. “Well, with your permission, sir, I shall retire for the evening.

  The men at the table rose, but before Connor could offer to escort her, she invited Ewan to do so. He seemed reluctant to leave the table, but to her surprise, agreed. Gallantly he walked her to her door, pausing only momentarily before darting back toward the Great Hall.

  Why she did not simply enter her room and retire for the evening, she didn’t know. One minute she had her hand on the latch, and the next, she turned and headed toward the spiral steps at the end of the corridor. Without consciously making the decision, she began climbing up the long, winding staircase that led to the north tower. At first the way was dimly lit from below, but as she ascended further, she had to feel the way with her hands. It was a far greater climb than she had expected and she was quite out of breath by the time she reached the top. Genevieve paused as she felt the cold wood of the door beneath her fingers. Groping for the latch, she pushed down, certain it would be locked. To her astonishment, the door swung open with a groaning creak. She blinked, trying to let her eyes adjust to the bright light of the moon that spilled into the room through an open window.

  Now why was the window open?

  Genevieve stood in the doorway listening to the whistle of the wind through the empty room, her heart beating rapidly. She could see dim shape of a single chair and in the corner by the window, a spinning wheel. She had no idea why she had come or what she hoped to find. Yet here she stood in the very room where Janet Douglas had met her untimely death.

  Compelled forward by morbid curiosity, she moved toward the window. She dared a cautious glimpse down at the courtyard below.

  Suddenly Genevieve heard a clatter and whirled around, shrieking as a dark form grabbed her by the upper arm. Yanked away from the window, she was slammed into the stone wall, the breath rushing from her lungs with a loud whoosh.

  Connor growled, his curt voice lashing out at her. “What in the devil are ye doing here?” In the moonlight she could see his nostrils flared with fury, his eyes cold with anger.

  “I…I…” Genevieve fought to catch her breath and slow the thunder of her heart. “I was just exploring.”

  He shook her slightly. “Exploring? Here?”

  “I’m sorry.” Her body started shaking. “I d-didn’t know it was forbidden.”

  His grip on her shoulders eased although he still pinned her against the wall. “’Tis no’ forbidden. But if ye had wished to see the room, ye could have asked.”

  “You are right. I apologize.”

  His anger seemed to fade. “Why did ye open the window?”

  “I didn’t open the window. It was open when I arrived.”

  “’Twas already open?”

  “Yes.”

  She could see he didn’t believe her. “Where is your light?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Ye came up here in the dark?”

  “Well, I don’t see yours.” She knew she sounded ridiculously defensive.

  “I dropped it when I entered the room and saw ye at the window.”

  “Oh.” She wondered why he had yet to move away. He remained pressed against her, his considerably large body shielding hers as if protecting her from something.

  But what?

  Silence stretched between them before he spoke. “Hell and damnation, Genevieve, ye could have been hurt up here. Ye could have been lost.”

  She thought it a curious choice of words, but before she could consider it further, he pulled her roughly, almost violently, to him, his mouth claiming hers in a blast of heat and hunger. The careful barrier she’d erected around her heart was crushed in an instant as his mouth devoured her softness. These were not the gentle, tender kisses he had once bestowed upon her at age sixteen. These were the kisses of a man driven by hunger and untamed desire.

  Her knees buckled beneath his unexpected ravishment and she gripped his shoulders, both thrilled and shocked by the heady sensation of his burning lips and her body’s welcoming response to him. He was devouring her and she permitted it, wanting it more than anything she’d ever wanted before. He tangled his fingers in her hair, angling her mouth to fit his, demanding she meet him with the same reckless abandon.

  She gave herself to the passion of his kiss, succumbing to the forceful domination of his lips. She was weak, but didn’t care, didn’t want him to stop. She’d never before been able to resist him and she realized she never would.

  Then, as abruptly as he had bent to kiss her, he lifted his mouth, closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the stone wall beside her head. She didn’t dare move. The blood pounded in her brain, leaped from her heart and clogged in her throat along with a raw and powerful emotion.

  Love.

  For a moment, he said nothing and then reached over to close the window. “Let’s go. Take my hand and I’ll lead ye down the stairs. They can be quite treacherous in the dark.”

  She hesitated, not trusting herself to touch him again, still deeply shaken from his passionate onslaught. He waited for her to decide and slowly she gave him her hand. He grasped it, those same magic hands having moments before been wound in her hair.

  Connor remained silent for the entire trip down the stairs. Without evening bidding her a good night, he dropped her off at her room and walked away. Genevieve shut the door, leaning back against it and closing her eyes.<
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  She still loved him. It was an admission dredged from a place beyond logic and reason. And it was horribly, awfully true.

  What had happened in the tower between the two of them?

  She trembled. Had he followed her, and if not, why had he gone to the tower? Who had been there before her and opened the window?

  Ignoring the sudden chill, she undressed for bed and blew out the candle. Tonight she would dream of good things, of things that were safe. But just as she drifted off to sleep, she thought she heard a soft voice whispering in her ear.

  It warned to her beware of Connor Douglas.

  Chapter 6

  Other castle guests began trickling in on Wednesday morning for the foxhunt that would take place on Saturday. Even more anticipated, it seemed, was Thursday night’s costume ball. The castle bustled with servants scurrying about cleaning, baking and preparing rooms for the numerous guests. Genevieve personally counted twelve new faces, but was certain she had missed at least a few.

  In deference to all the excitement, she suspended Ewan’s regular lessons and they spent their days either practicing dance steps or down with the hounds. She was amazed at his progress and could only attribute it to his deep-seated desire to please his father.

  She considered it her duty to warn him. “We still have to convince your father. That may not be easy.”

  “We can.” Ewan sounded so confident, she prayed he was right.

  The rest of Wednesday Genevieve spent helping Mrs. MacDougal sew on her and Ewan’s and her costumes. Once Ewan heard he would be permitted to attend the ball, he promptly announced he wished to be a pirate. Mrs. MacDougal sent two girls to work sewing his, while she selected a light blue gown to serve as a costume for Genevieve.

  “Who shall I be in that?” Genevieve eyed the housekeeper curiously.

  “Christina Douglas, wife o’ Black Gavin.”

  Genevieve gasped in surprise. “Christina Douglas? Why her?”

  Mrs. MacDougal shrugged, but Genevieve sensed her disapproval. “Because Connor requested it. And because ’twill be an easy costume to sew. She haunts the tower, havena ye heard?”

  “The north tower?” Genevieve thought of the open window.

  “Aye, indeed. Certainly ye’ve heard o’ the treasure Black Gavin hid in the castle.”

  “Ewan told me. Surely you don’t really believe such rubbish.”

  “’Tisn’t for me to believe or no’. It simply is.”

  Genevieve sank into a chair. “Whatever happened to Christina?”

  “After Gavin was killed, she disappeared. Some believe she found the treasure and ran wi’ it but she was never found alive or dead. And no one ever revealed the treasure.”

  Genevieve shuddered. “It sounds like this treasure, if it really exists, brings rather ill luck.”

  “’Tis so. After all, the treasure came from the English and its price was treachery and betrayal o’ Gavin’s own people. If the truth be known, ye sort o’ resemble Christina Douglas.”

  “I do?”

  “Aye, ye can see for yerself. Her portrait hangs in the Great Hall on the wall west o’ the hearth. She is sitting in the garden, clad in a gown o’ blue with silver threads.”

  “Thus your choice of the blue gown. I must have a look at her.”

  “Indeed, ye should.” She lifted up Genevieve’s gown and studied it. “Ye just take care o’ our Ewan. ’Twill be his first ball and certainly a night to remember. Perhaps for us all.”

  Genevieve nodded, unaware of just how right she would be.

  “Ye shall no’ escape me this time, Madame.” Ewan took a step forward in the schoolroom, brandishing a wooden sword. The black patch over his right eye slid down his nose and he pushed it up. “Surrender your treasure at once or face a certain death.”

  Genevieve held up her hands in mock terror. “I beg of you, sire, don’t harm me.”

  Ewan laughed and Genevieve was delighted to see the warmth actually reach his eyes for the first time since they had met.

  “Well, do I look fierce enough for the ball tonight, English?” He held out his hands and turned around for her inspection. Truthfully, she thought he appeared nothing short of adorable in a flowing shirt of white, black breeches, a red rag tied over his head. A wooden sword attached to his waist with a strip of leather. But she knew better than to say it.

  “You look positively ferocious.” She adjusted the rag on his head. “Remember, in front of the other guests you should address me as Miss Fitzsimmons.”

  He gave her a boyish grin. “I never call ye that. Tonight I shall call ye Christina Douglas. Did ye know ye look just like her?”

  “There is a slight resemblance, I suppose.”

  Genevieve smoothed the folds of her blue gown. Mrs. MacDougal had draped the bodice with silvery gauze, undoubtedly to look similar to the one worn by the real Christina Douglas in the portrait.

  “Come now. Let us practice those dance steps one last time before you put them into practice.”

  The musicians had already begun to play downstairs and they could hear the lilting strains wafting in through the open door.

  “Now don’t forget when you ask a lady for the pleasure of a dance and she accepts, you need to offer her your arm.” Genevieve held out her arm until Ewan took it. “Now lead me to the dance floor.”

  The boy did as told but he looked so nervous, she thought he might wretch. Genevieve patted him on the shoulder. “This is not so terrible a thing.”

  “’Tis easy for ye to say. Ye’re a lass. Ye like dancing.”

  She rolled her eyes, but took pity on him. “Now, take my right hand and then turn to your left. We shall both take three steps forward and then turn to face each other again.”

  He took her hand and immediately took three steps. Genevieve swallowed a laugh. “No, Ewan, you must wait for the lady before you take the three steps. Like this.” She showed him how to proceed and he blushed bright red, scuffing his foot on the floor.

  “Sorry.”

  “You’re doing fine.”

  They practiced it a few more times until they heard a noise at the doorway. Both of them whirled around to see Connor leaning against the doorjamb. Stunningly resplendent in a blazing white shirt and a kilt of black and gray, he exuded masculinity. A plaid in matching colors had been draped over one shoulder and fastened with a gleaming red ruby brooch. His black devil hair hung loose about his shoulders and a sheathed dirk had been fastened to his waist with a leather belt. He so closely resembled wild Black Gavin in the painting that it took her breath away.

  He nodded at Ewan. “Well done, lad. Ye’re no’ bad on your feet for a pirate.”

  Pleased by the praise, Ewan puffed out his chest. “Dancing is easy.”

  Genevieve smiled at the cocky boast and glanced at Connor. He gazed at her, a mixture of amusement, heat and desire on his face. They had not spoken of the kiss in the tower and in fact, had said very little since that night. That suited her just fine because she had every intention of forgetting that it ever happened.

  “Christina Douglas.” The words came out like a revered whisper. “The resemblance is remarkable.”

  She offered a small curtsey. “Mrs. MacDougal said you requested it. Given that we had little time to make a costume, I agreed this was a suitable choice.”

  “Aye, I’m pleased that ye saw fit to indulge me. May I request the pleasure o’ this dance?”

  “Now? But what about your guests downstairs?”

  Connor grinned, his teeth flashing white. “Ewan, go on down to the ball and take my place temporarily as host, would ye, lad? Miss Fitzsimmons and I will join ye in a minute. I’d have her instruct me in a dance step or two.”

  “Ye want me to host?” Ewan could barely contain his excitement. “Aye, Da, I can do that.” He darted down into the corridor, presumably before his father changed his mind.

  “He’s a good lad.” Connor turned to Genevieve and bowed. “Shall we begin, my lady?”

  G
enevieve nodded, trying to still the hammering of her heart. Connor held out his arm and she took it. He slid his warm hand down her arm, leaving a trail of fire before linking fingers with her. Together they began to dance, perfectly in step with each other. After a few minutes, Genevieve spoke.

  “It’s clear you don’t need any instruction.”

  “’Tis only because I have an excellent partner.” He had a bit of the devil in his blue eyes.

  She couldn’t help but smile. “You are quite incorrigible. And you do realize that wearing the kilt is illegal. The King has decreed it so.”

  “Really?” Connor expressed mock surprise, pressing his palm expertly against hers and stepped forward. “And are ye intending to enforce the king’s decree?”

  “Of course, not. But aren’t you worried that word of this will get back to the king?”

  “Are ye?”

  “Certainly, I am. You are my employer after all. If you are led to the jail, who will pay my stipend?”

  His warm fingers gripped hers as they stepped side by side. An air of command exuded from him, reminding her of just how powerful and virile he was. “Is that all that concerns ye? Your stipend?”

  “I would worry for the effect it would have on Ewan, of course.”

  He laughed. “Ye worry for naught. ’Tis just a costume, Genevieve.”

  She frowned. “A costume? And just who are you supposed to be?”

  “Why Black Gavin, o’ course. If ’tis necessary, I’ll remind the English that he was the one and only Douglas loyal to the crown.”

  Genevieve stopped dancing. “You’re dressed as Black Gavin?”

  In one forward motion, he pulled her into his arms. This was not part of the dance. “Aye, and for tonight at least, it appears ye are my wife.” His breath felt hot against her ear. “What say ye o’ that?”

  Their eyes locked. His arms tightened around her, one hand pressing into the small of her back. His wife? Acutely conscious of where his warm flesh touched her, she tingled from the contact. Tonight something intense and bold smoldered in his cool blue eyes. Her body responded to him with such a fierce intensity it left her reeling.